Mr. Waddington of Wyck. Sinclair May

he? Does he say that?"

      "He says he'll pay you out. He'll summons you. He was most abusive."

      Mr. Waddington's face positively swelled with the choleric flush that swamped its genial fatuity.

      "It seems somebody told him you were going to do up the cottage and let it for more rent."

      "I don't know who could have spread that story."

      "I assure you, Mr. Waddington, it wasn't me!"

      "My dear Mrs. Levitt, of course. … I won't say I wasn't thinking of it, and that I wouldn't have done it, if I could have got rid of Ballinger. … " He meditated.

      "I don't see why I shouldn't get rid of him. If he dares me, the scoundrel, he's simply asking for it. And he shall have it."

      "Oh, but I wouldn't for worlds have him turned into the street. With his wife and babies."

      "My dear lady, I shan't turn them into the street. I shouldn't be allowed to. There's a cottage at Lower Wyck they can go into. The one he had when he first came to me."

      He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. It wasn't, as it stood, a decent cottage; but if he was prepared to spend fifty pounds or so on it, it could be made habitable; and, by George, he was prepared, if it was only to teach Ballinger a lesson. For it meant that Ballinger would have to walk an extra mile up hill to his work every day. Serve him right, the impudent rascal.

      "Poor thing, he won't," said Mrs. Levitt, "have his nice garden."

      "He won't. Ballinger must learn," said Mr. Waddington with magisterial severity, "that he can't have everything. He certainly can't have it both ways. Abuse and threaten me and expect favours. He may go … to Colonel Grainger."

      "If it really must happen," said Mrs. Levitt, "do you mean that I may have the house?"

      "I shall be only too delighted to have such a charming tenant."

      "Well, I shan't threaten and abuse you and call you every nasty name under the sun. And you won't, you won't turn me out when my lease is up?"

      He bowed over the hand she held out to him.

      "You shall never be turned out as long as you want to stay."

      By twelve o'clock they had arranged the details; Mr. Waddington was to put in a bathroom; to throw the two rooms on the ground floor into one; to build out a new sitting-room with a bedroom over it; and to paint and distemper the place, in cream white, throughout. And it was to be called the White House. By the time they had finished with it Ballinger's cottage had become the house Mrs. Levitt had dreamed of all her life, and not unlike the house Mr. Waddington had dreamed of that minute (while he planned the bathroom); the little bijou house where an adorable but not too rigorously moral lady—He stopped with a mental jerk, ashamed. He had no reason to suppose that Elise was or would become such a lady.

      And the poor innocent woman was saying, "Just one thing, Mr. Waddington, the rent?"

      (No earthly reason.) "We can talk about that another time. I shan't be hard on you."

      No. He wouldn't be hard on her. But in that other case there wouldn't have been any rent at all.

      As he left the house he could see Mrs. Rickards hurrying towards it across the square.

      "She waddles like a duck," he thought. The movement suggested a plebeian excitement and curiosity that displeased him. He recalled her face. Her extraordinary face. "Quite enough," he thought, "to put all that into my head. Poor Elise"

      He liked to think of her. It made him feel what he had felt last night over Barbara Madden—virtuous—as though he had struggled and got the better of an impetuous passion. He was so touched by his own beautiful renunciation that when he found Fanny working in the garden he felt a sudden tenderness for her as the cause of it. She looked up at him from her pansy bed and laughed. "What are you looking so sentimental for, old thing?"

      3

      Mrs. Levitt's affair settled, he could now give his whole time to the serious business of the day.

      He was exceedingly anxious to get it over. Nothing could be more disturbing than Fanny's suggestion that the name of Sir John Corbett might carry more weight with his Committee than his own. The Waddingtons of Wyck had ancestry. Waddingtons had held Lower Wyck Manor for ten generations, whereas Sir John Corbett's father had bought Underwoods and rebuilt it somewhere in the 'seventies. On the other hand Sir John was the largest and richest landowner in the place. He could buy up Wyck—on—the—Hill to—morrow and thrive on the transaction. He therefore represented the larger vested interest And as the whole object of the League was the safeguarding of vested interests, in other words, of liberty, that British liberty which is bound up with law and order, with private property in general and landownership in particular; as the principle of its very being was the preservation of precisely such an institution as Sir John himself, the Committee of the Wyck Branch of the League could hardly avoid inviting him to be its president. There was no blinking the fact, and Fanny hadn't blinked it, that Sir John was the proper person. Most of Fanny's suggestions had a strong but unpleasant element of common sense.

      But the more interest he took in the League, the more passionately he flung himself into the business of its creation, the more abhorrent to Mr. Waddington was the thought that the chief place in it, the presidency, would pass over his head to Sir John.

      His only hope was in Sir John's well-known indolence and irresponsibility. Sir John was the exhausted reaction from the efforts of a self-made grandfather and of a father spendthrift in energy; he had had everything done for him ever since he was a baby, and consequently was now unable or unwilling to do anything for himself or other people. You couldn't see him taking an active part in the management of the League, and Mr. Waddington couldn't see himself doing all the work and handing over all the glory to Sir John. Still, between Mr. Waddington and the glory there was only this supine figure of Sir John, and Sir John once out of the running he could count without immodesty on the unanimous vote of any committee he formed in Wyck.

      It was possible that even a Sir John Corbett would not really carry it over a Waddington of Wyck, but Mr. Waddington wasn't taking any risks. What he had to do was to suggest the presidency to Sir John in such a way that he would be certain to refuse it.

      He had the good luck to find Sir John alone in his library at tea-time, eating hot buttered toast.

      There was hope for Mr. Waddington in Sir John's attitude, lying back and nursing his little round stomach, hope in the hot, buttery gleam of his cheeks, in his wide mouth, lazy under the jutting grey moustache, and in the scrabbling of his little legs as he exerted himself to stand upright.

      "Well, Waddington, glad to see you."

      He was in his chair again. With another prodigious effort he leaned forward and rang for more tea and more toast.

      "Did you walk?" said Sir John. His little round eyes expressed horror at the possibility.

      "No, I just ran over in my car."

      "Drove yourself?"

      "No. Too much effort of attention. I find it interferes with my thinking."

      "Interferes with everything," said Sir John. "'Spect you drove enough during the war to last you for the rest of your life."

      "Ah, Government service. A very different thing. That reminds me; I've come to-day to consult you on a matter of public business."

      "Business?" (He noted Sir John's uneasy pout.) "Better have some tea first." Sir John took another piece of buttered toast.

      If only Sir John would go on eating. Nothing like buttered toast for sustaining that mood of voluptuous inertia.

      When Mr. Waddington judged the moment propitious he began. "While I was up in London I had the pleasure of lunching with Sir Maurice Gedge. He wants me to start a branch of the National League of Liberty here."

      "Liberty?